


Divisions of the Aftermath

by Quinquangularist



Series: The Chronicles of Makara [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other, Post!sober Gamzee, Sort of AU?, mild sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:50:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinquangularist/pseuds/Quinquangularist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Karkat Vantas and you often wonder what goes through your former morail's mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divisions of the Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> As always, unbeta'ed so let me know if you spot anything I haven't. It's greatly appreciated.

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you often wonder what goes through your former morail's mind.  
Gamzee's… different now, you think that's the best way to describe it.  
He's not completely okay in the pan, but not a slavering murder-clown either.  
He's been locked in his block, and you can hear him most days.  
Sometimes he'll go back to the way he was that night, snarling and growling at his own shadow, throwing himself at the walls, bellowing with rage. Others, he'll be almost lucid, the sopor worn off, the pain rushing back, and he shrieks in agony until one of you goes in to inject him with more of the drug, courtesy of the humans' grist.  
The worst days though, are the rarest. These are the days where he's completely himself, the troll he was before the incident, your morail.  
Those days, he'll wake up, remember nothing, and know only that he's all alone. He only begins to vaguely recall what he's done after a few hours. He calls out for you, he tries to reach you on your husktop, but you never answer. Eventually he gives up, just curls up on the floor and weeps. When the memories all come flooding back is the worst part. He tries to get out, banging on the door with bloodied fists and yelling til his throat is raw.  
He screams that he's sorry, tears streaming down his face, paint long washed away along with his sanity.  
The screaming fades and he's whispering, coughing, pleading, begging for someone, anyone.  
These are the days that you're tempted to unlock the door, tempted to go in and hold him until his shoulders stop shaking, wrap your arms around him and tell him that everything's going to be okay.  
You're scared though. You're terrified that if you enter that cursed room you won't be able to leave. Won't be able to abandon him there to scratch at the walls till his claws bleed, to lie in the empty darkness of paradox space and sob softly, as he does at the end of these days.  
He slumps against the door and goes so quiet, shuddering with ragged breaths until he falls asleep, the next day destined to be one of madness and rage.  
You hate these days, because they remind you that under all the insanity, he's still your morail, still your Gamzee, and you've abandoned him, just like his lusus who you despised for doing so.  
These are the days that he lies awake and cries for what he's done, but they're also the days that you do.


End file.
